by Damien Boyd
‘Did he find anything?’
‘No. I always knew someone would come, though. That’s why I left it. I always knew you’d come. Paul was never wrong.’
Dixon smiled.
‘Then when the killings started again it was just a matter of time,’ continued Mrs Butler.
‘Can I sit here for a while and go through these papers?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Jonny, go back to Central Park and chase up those files and the surveillance, will you?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘What time’s our train home?’
‘There’s one at six and another at seven.’
‘I’ll catch you up.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ asked Mrs Butler.
‘And a biscuit if you’ve got one, please.’ Dixon picked up the papers on the swivel chair and put them on the bed. Then he sat down in front of the computer. ‘Does it work?’
‘No one’s touched it since 2011, but you’re welcome to have a look.’
‘Thank you.’
He reached down and switched it on, noticing several pieces of paper on the floor under the desk: a photograph of a car, an old Ford Sierra registration number P316 PYU; two emails from Ray Hargreaves; and a note that looked as though it had been Sellotaped to the wall above the printer on the right. The Sellotape was brown and brittle to the touch, the glue long gone, with a corresponding brown stain on the wallpaper.
Dixon stared at what looked like a list of codes, each a series of letters and numbers, all but the last one on the list crossed out.
He turned back to the computer and frowned at the blank screen.
‘Here you are, dear.’
Mrs Butler placed a mug of tea and a plate piled high with digestive biscuits on the desk next to Dixon.
‘D’you know what this is?’ he asked, holding up the list of codes.
‘It used to be on the wall there,’ she said, pointing above the printer. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘On the floor.’
‘I just assumed it was his passwords. As you get older you have to write them down, you know.’
Dixon switched the monitor off and on again. Then he tried the same with the computer. Still the same blank screen. He sighed, put on a pair of latex gloves, leaned over and dragged the tower out from under the desk. He tipped it forwards and shone the light on his phone at the screws in the back.
‘Bollocks,’ he muttered.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Butler, I thought you’d gone.’
‘It’s all right. You get used to it as a copper’s wife.’
‘You see these screw heads?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ve been tampered with. I’m guessing in that burglary someone took the hard drive out of the computer.’
‘What does that do?’
‘Well, it’s got the memory, the documents, photographs, everything. It’s like taking the brain out.’
‘I’ve never lost any money or anything like that,’ Mrs Butler said, shaking her head.
‘I’m guessing they weren’t after your bank details.’
‘Can it be restored or whatever it is you do?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Dixon, pushing the box back under the desk. ‘Can I take some of these photographs, please? And this note?’
‘Take the lot, if you like, dear. I’ve got a bag somewhere.’
‘Thank you.’
Dixon slid the note with the list of codes on it into his pocket and packed the rest of the papers and photographs into an old holdall handed to him by Mrs Butler. He looked up at the wall above the bed: a patchwork of photographs he’d left behind, bright and faded wallpaper, and Blu Tack stains.
‘It’s about time I redecorated in here.’ Mrs Butler smiled. ‘You will let me know if he was right all along, won’t you?’ A small tear appeared in the corner of her eye. ‘It would be nice to know.’
‘I will,’ replied Dixon.
The taxi waited for Dixon while he put the holdall with his overnight bag in the left luggage at the Premier Inn. Then he ran back out to the cab and jumped in the back.
‘D’you know a club called Snooker City?’
‘Yeah, mate.’
‘Take me there, please.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Well, you’re a copper, ain’t ya?’
‘When you’re ready,’ said Dixon.
‘Your funeral.’
A single storey red brick building in an otherwise residential area, the only indication of Irish ownership the small shamrock dotting the ‘i’ of ‘City’ on the fluorescent sign. Dixon walked in and stood at the bar, listening to the click of the snooker balls behind him. Four of the tables were being used; the other eight empty. Arranged in four rows of three, they covered an area the size of two tennis courts.
‘I’m looking for Paddy Shannon,’ said Dixon to the barman, watching two burly figures appearing either side of him in the mirror behind the bar.
‘Who wants him?’ A broad Irish accent was to be expected.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Dixon.’
‘No Manchester copper would come in here looking for Paddy.’
‘I’m not from round here.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘A chat.’
‘What about?’ the barman asked, lining the beer mats up on the top of the bar.
‘I’m investigating the murders in Somerset. The copycat. And there’s a rumour he had Michael Carter killed.’
‘And you think he’s going to confess to you?’
‘Look, I’m not interested in Paddy Shannon or Michael Carter, I just want to catch this copycat. And The Vet, if I can. He’s still out there, isn’t he?’
The man behind the bar looked at the men either side of Dixon and nodded. They stepped back and returned to the nearest snooker table. Dixon waited for the familiar click before he spoke again.
‘You’re Paddy Shannon?’
‘I am.’
‘Are the rumours true?’
‘You want me to tell you if I had Michael Carter killed?’
‘I reckon you’ll tell me if you didn’t and throw me out on my ear if you did,’ said Dixon, smiling.
‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, so you have.’ Shannon pushed a glass up under the Bushmills optic and placed it on the bar in front of Dixon.
‘Drink.’
Dixon did as he was told.
‘And what happens if you just disappear then? I’ve got enough on my payroll not to see the inside of a cell.’
‘I’m guessing the officers on your payroll don’t include any from Avon and Somerset?’
‘No.’
Dixon smiled. ‘There you are then.’
‘And I suppose they all know you’re here.’
‘One does. That’s all it takes.’
Shannon poured himself a Bushmills and downed it in one.
‘We lost a man to The Vet,’ he said, sucking his teeth. ‘A friend of mine, so he was.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Dermot McGann.’
‘He’s listed as disappeared. A possible victim of The Vet.’
‘He was a victim all right. The bastard sent me a feckin’ Polaroid of it.’
Dixon drained his Bushmills and placed the empty glass on a beer mat. ‘Have you still got it?’
Shannon stared at him, then picked up the empty glass and refilled it. ‘Wait here,’ he said, disappearing through a door at the end of the bar.
Dixon listened to the click of the balls on the snooker tables, and the score: eighty, eighty-one, eighty-eight. There must be some good players at Snooker City, he thought, resisting the temptation to turn around to watch.
‘I kept it,’ said Shannon, closing the door behind him, ‘so one day I could give it back to the bastard, before I killed him.’ He handed Dixon the Polaroid photograph. ‘I reckon you�
�ll be finding him first.’
Dixon looked down at the picture of Dermot McGann, eyes wide, nostrils flared, teeth gritted; his hands reaching out towards the camera, the flash glinting on the handcuffs.
‘Why “Heads or Tails”?’ asked Dixon, pointing to a message scrawled on the bottom of the photograph.
‘Heads I kill you, tails I don’t.’ Shannon flicked an imaginary coin into the air with his right hand. ‘With a piece of skull.’
‘Can I keep this?’
‘You can.’
Dixon slid the photograph into his jacket pocket and picked up his glass.
‘And now you’ve got a copycat on the loose,’ said Shannon, nodding.
‘Killing innocent people.’
‘Are you wearing a wire?’
‘No.’ Dixon held open his jacket.
‘We didn’t kill Carter,’ said Shannon. ‘But we bloody well would’ve done if we’d got our hands on him.’
‘Which Carter?’
Shannon picked up a towel and began drying beer tankards, hanging each in turn above his head. ‘Both.’
‘Did the IRA kill them?’
‘No.’
‘So, they’re still out there?’
‘I suppose.’
‘No rumours about where they might’ve gone?’
‘Spain or Cyprus, I expect. Where would you go?’
‘I’d go home,’ said Dixon.
‘I suggest you do that, right now.’
‘I will.’
Dixon stared into Shannon’s eyes and then turned away.
‘One last thing,’ said Shannon. ‘Call it a gesture of goodwill. That assistant of yours – the feckin’ little poof,’ he sneered. ‘He’s not who he says he is.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that.’
‘And how would you know?’
‘I make it my business to know about fellow countrymen on the wrong side of the law. You never know when you might need a friend.’
Dixon paused in the doorway and looked back at the bar. Shannon had gone, but the games of snooker were still going on, the click louder on one table as the player smashed into the pack, sending the cue ball bouncing off the table. Dixon looked down at the floor in front of the bar and imagined a man having his brains bashed in with a snooker cue. Then he stepped out into the rain, grateful to have avoided that fate. Or worse.
Seventeen missed calls. Dixon had felt his phone buzzing in his pocket throughout his visit to Snooker City. It was the one Avon and Somerset officer he had told he was going to see the Shannons. Better call her back, he thought as he dialled the number.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘You’re doing my bloody head in,’ Jane muttered. A mug slammed down on a desk in the background.
‘I’m fine. Honestly.’
‘What is it with you and gangsters? You can’t just saunter in and fire questions at them!’
‘That depends what you want to ask them about.’
‘And a text? That’s all I get?’
‘I didn’t have much time.’
‘You’re going to get yourself killed one day.’
‘How’s your day been?’
‘Idiot.’
Dixon waited.
‘Not too bad,’ continued Jane, the loud sigh almost drowning out her reply. ‘Where are you now?’
‘At the hotel, picking up my bag. The cab’s waiting to take me to the railway station.’
‘What time d’you get in?’
‘Just after ten.’
‘I’ll pick you up.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Just try to stay out of trouble until then.’
Dixon was about to give her his standard ‘yes, Mother’ reply when he noticed the dialling tone. Jane had put the phone down on him. That was a first. Still, four hours on the train would give her time to calm down. Whether he stayed out of trouble in the meantime would be up to Jonny Sexton.
Chapter Nineteen
Dixon dumped his bags on the table and dropped down on to the seat opposite Sexton. Then he dragged the bags on to the vacant window seat next to him, Mrs Butler’s holdall underneath his own overnight bag.
‘You made it then, Sir,’ said Sexton, taking out his earphones.
‘I did.’
‘Find anything useful?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘You were a long time at Mrs Butler’s,’ said Sexton.
‘I went to see the Shannons.’
‘You just walked in there?’ Sexton’s jaw dropped.
‘Pretty much.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That they didn’t kill Michael Carter and neither did the IRA.’
‘What difference does that make to the copycat?’
‘We need to know where he’s getting his information from, don’t we? And it means the Carters are still out there somewhere. The Vet as well. There must be a connection of some sort. Then we’ve got the old lady who travelled all the way from Manchester to kill herself.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Paddy Shannon gave me this.’ Dixon dropped the Polaroid photograph on to the table in front of Sexton.
‘Who is it?’ asked Sexton, picking it up.
‘Dermot McGann.’
‘Heads or tails?’
‘The toss of a very special type of coin,’ muttered Dixon. ‘Give me a minute.’ He fished his phone out of his jacket pocket. ‘I had a couple of texts that got lost in all the missed calls.’
‘Who were the calls from?’
‘Jane.’ He navigated to Messages and scrolled down, ignoring the multitude from voicemail. ‘Here’s one from Roger – Heroin and fentanyl enough to kill a seasoned addict let alone an elderly lady not used to it – and another from Janice – Manch Daily Post running e-fit and CCTV still tonight.’
‘Maybe we should have hung around for that?’ asked Sexton.
‘We need to get back,’ said Dixon, watching the adjacent train creeping away from the platform. It took him a moment to realise that train was stationary and it was theirs that was moving.
‘Fancy a beer?’ asked Sexton, sliding the photograph across the table.
‘Interesting fellow, Paddy Shannon,’ said Dixon, ignoring the question. ‘Likes to keep track of fellow Irishmen on the wrong side of the law, as he put it.’
‘Really?’
‘Follows their careers closely,’ said Dixon, raising his eyebrows.
Sexton looked along the aisle, out of the window, anywhere to avoid Dixon’s stare.
‘Did he . . . er . . . did he say anything about . . . ?’
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it’s funny you should say that,’ said Dixon, dropping his phone and the Polaroid back into his pocket.
Sexton took a deep breath. ‘What did he say?’
‘That you aren’t who you say you are.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Leaves me thinking all sorts of things though, doesn’t it?’ Dixon scowled.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘For all I know you could be Carter’s son and heir. Or a member of the IRA . . .’
‘All right, all right.’
‘Either way, I can’t trust you.’
‘Yes, you can.’
Dixon waited. Sexton was holding his train ticket between the thumb and index finger of his left hand and flicking it with his right, his eyes darting around the carriage.
‘It’s vital my cover isn’t blown,’ he said, looking back to Dixon.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m in the CCU.’
‘And whose corruption are you countering?’
‘Not yours.’
‘From Bristol?’
‘Yes.’
‘Investigating who?’
‘The Manchester MIT.’
‘Does Deborah Potter know?’
‘That’s why she put me with
you and sent us up here.’ Sexton leaned forward across the table. ‘Look, Manchester CCU have had their suspicions about the MIT for years. They’ve got people on the inside before, but it’s never lasted, so this was a chance to have another look, from a different angle. The Carters had someone on the inside and the Shannons do too. It was a chance to—’
‘I get it.’
‘So, we’re all right?’ asked Sexton, nodding his head.
‘I’ll have that beer now,’ Dixon muttered.
He was watching the fields flashing by when Sexton placed two cans of beer on the table in front of him.
‘Did you get the file on the officer who died in prison?’
‘The CCU wouldn’t release it.’ Sexton sat down.
‘Why not?’
‘Manny didn’t say.’
‘What about the surveillance?’
‘I’ve got the discs here,’ replied Sexton, tapping his bag on the seat next to him.
‘Well, that’s something at least.’
‘What happens now?’ asked Sexton.
‘I try to catch up on some sleep,’ said Dixon, closing his eyes. ‘And you try to keep me awake with your music.’
No hug, no kiss. Not even a smile. Dixon had received a frosty reception at Highbridge Railway Station and an almost silent drive home, his one question about Monty answered with a curt ‘of course I have’. He thought it best not to inflame the situation and, after giving Monty a run in the field behind the cottage, he sat down next to Jane on the sofa and waited for her to start talking.
At least she was watching The Great Escape again. Richard Attenborough was outlining his plans to dig three tunnels when Jane hit the ‘pause’ button, freezing it just at the point he reveals how many prisoners of war will be escaping.
‘I’m not sure how much more of this I can . . .’ Jane threw the remote control on the floor and stormed into the kitchen. Dixon followed. He turned her round to face him and put his arms around her waist. She turned away, staring out of the window into the darkness. ‘I had a call from Sonia’s probation officer. They had to break into her flat, and she found my number scribbled on the wall.’
‘Is she dead?’ Dixon asked, wiping a tear from Jane’s cheek with his thumb.
She managed a nod before starting to sob, her face buried in his shoulder.
‘I’ve only just found her, and now she’s gone.’
